253 and 256

The wind beneath me, and above, beside,

a-flutter and at once at rest again.

And many more just so on every side,

we muse whether the breeze returns, and when?

The rain stuck in its droplets on my skin.

Drip-drop, and more make fall to those below.

Their way down to the damp soil wherein

the writhing roots of us are wont to grow.

Then, matterless! the light now fills my pores.

My muscles stretch, my circulation slakes.

I hear the lower ones perk up from snores,

komorebi from their dark sleep awakes.

Each moment is. Each moment was. I live.

We have what day and weather want to give.

~~~

I reached a hedge, too high for me to hop,

but God had given me a bag of seeds.

I planted, and they grew, and now I chop,

to build a ladder out of planks and reeds.

And all the time I cut the fresh-grown wood,

I think how very nice their shade had been.

Perhaps I’ll stop. It could be that I should

have stayed here in my hedgy, shady ken.

Why did I want to cross the hedge again?

What did I want to see in yonder place?

And so I went right back to chopping then,

now wond’ring what the hedges so erase.

The hedge is very nice, as is the shade,

but curiosity will cut a glade.